Crimson halfmoons
by Floopygirl
Summary: Sam's thoughts after a couple of shippy episodes - 100d, SoG, D&C. SJ, minor references to self-harming


**Content warning: this contains minor references to self-harming. If you find the concept offensive, do not pass go, do not collect 200 pounds, do not blame me if you keep reading and are offended.**

Though personally, I think it's so mild as to be hardly worth mentioning, but I know people have different opinions

Rating: 16+

Pairing: S/J

Spoilers: A hundred days, Shades of Grey, Divide and Conquer

Disclaimer: not mine

A/N: I think the content warning pretty much said it all. I know I'm being quite angsty at the mo; I'll try and write something happy soon :-)

* * *

_"You must be very happy to be going home."_

_"No, I'm not."_

She types away, ignoring the words echoing through her mind. She's so tired, so very tired after all those months of work, but she's determined to write up the mission and then hand the report to the General. Then she'll be able to forget and move on.

"_No, I'm not."_

But she can't stop hearing him say it, over and over, and it's hard to concentrate on what she's writing. Looking up at the screen, she realises she's typed them accidentally. "Teal'c and the villagers had successfully managed to unbury the no, I'm not." It doesn't read well.

Tears aren't far away, but she's not going to cry. Not now, not after everything, not in front of the security cameras and not in the privacy of her own home. Still, her eyes burn as if they don't realise what's expected of them.

Slowly she rolls up the sleeve of her black T-shirt and digs her nails into her wrist. She keeps them blunt, but even so the pain – negligible in comparison to what she's experienced in combat, or even when brushing her hair on some mornings – clears her mind. The self-disgust she feels after working herself into the ground for someone who doesn't even care fades away and she can push it aside as if it were never there.

A deep breath, and then she moves the cursor, selects the words she never meant to write, hits delete and then carries on typing. Soon she'll be finished and then she can go home and sleep.

xxxxx

"_Well Sir, with respect, you aren't exactly acting like yourself."_

"_No Carter. I haven't been acting like myself since I met you. Now I'm acting like myself."_

Even now that he's back, she still wonders if he meant what he said. She doesn't like the idea that he didn't, but knows how to hurt her with such accuracy? Doubt nags at her, interrupting her thoughts when she's talking to friends, when she's investigating new artifacts – she's tried to remove the term 'doohickey' from her vocabulary – and she even has trouble concentrating in mission briefings. Not that it's fascinating, listening to Daniel and the Colonel quibble over which planets are worth visiting .

But she's Samantha Carter, warrior-scientist extraordinaire, and she needs to focus on what she's doing. If she doesn't, it might all fall apart.

Nails bite into wrist again. It's such a small, harmless way of keeping in control, keeping her mind focused where it needs to be, and it leaves no marks unless she's careless. Leaving the recriminations and fears blocked out. Was it all an act, or did he really mean it?

xxxxx

"_I didn't leave ... because I'd have rather died myself ... than lose Carter."_

"_Why?"_

"_Because I care about her... A lot more than I'm supposed to." _

And now she knows, but knowing that he does care doesn't help. If anything it's harder: there's no more teasing or flirting or casual invitations to his cabin. Instead they have duty and orders and denial, and it hurts more than any of the doubts she once felt.

She sits on her bed at home, feeling fear and anger and disgust that she can feel this way for someone who's so clearly forbidden to her.

Her nails don't bite deeply enough and she rakes them across her skin, fascinated by how terrifying something so simple is. She expects to see marks afterwards but her skin is clear, and it's as if nothing ever happened.

But half an hour later, when she's microwaving leftovers from last night's takeout, she sees livid lines emblazoned on her pale skin, and fear washes over her, clutching at her chest. She smoothes over the paths her nails have made with the pads of her fingers, and thinks carefully about what she's doing and what she's already done. Then she climbs the stairs and rummages on her dressing table, looking for something to make it better.

She sits and delicately files until there are no white crescents left, careful not to make her fingers bleed. Then she puts the file away and sits quietly, thinking to herself. A single tear runs down her face and she brushes it away impatiently. Then she walks out to her car, leaving the leftover food to cool in her kitchen. She has a whole lab of doohickeys to play with, and that's all the distraction she needs.


End file.
